My love

There’s something strangely satisfying about cooking. I don’t know exactly what it is but I always experience this feeling of complete and utter achievement when I finish preparing a meal or a dessert. I love it so much I insist on baking and decorating my own birthday cake every year and have been known to kick my mother, father and little brother out of the kitchen in order to do it. I’ve always been a bit of a misfit, even in my family. The moments I remember, from growing up, when I felt like I truly belonged were the summers spent in my Grandmother’s kitchen, baking and cooking with her. First thing I learned to make was a Codfish Soufflé. That was her signature dish, the one she would cook for every family gathering and the one I longed for whenever I was away for school. Tricky thing to teach to a ten year old but, she did it. Maybe that is part of the reason why I love cooking and baking so much. My fondest childhood memories are of spending my school holidays in the kitchen cooking with my grandma the old fashion way, all done by hand. In fact my oldest memory is of spending the morning sitting on the floor of my grandmother’s kitchen, holding a little baby doll, watching her as she cooked our lunch. I grew up watching the women in my family cooking and baking, smelling the different scents of the ingredients and the way they blended with each other creating all these beautiful, distinct and delicious pallets of sheer goodness. Cooking always takes me back to that most wonderful and happy time in my life; when everything was simple and all it took was a strong hug and kiss on my brow from my Dad to make me feel safe and shielded from absolutely anything. All I have to do is smell the food I am cooking and suddenly I am transported back to those easier times. But it is not just my memories that make cooking such a special and marvelous hobby for me. I don’t just enjoy cooking for myself; I love to cook for others. To me there’s no better feeling